


zero to sixty

by Cannes



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Caretaking, Existential Crisis, Fear of Death, Heavy Angst, Idiots to Idiots, M/M, Mild Language, Motorcycles, Near Death Experiences, and they were roomates, idk man i just string together sentences and hope for the best, mentions of a car accident, mortality crisis, please be careful reading if any of the subject matter might negatively affect you!!, sokka's rang of emotions is dizzying, who didn't realize they were in love until one almost dies, zuko's self-esteem issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannes/pseuds/Cannes
Summary: For some reason, the heart-rate monitor picks up its pace next to Sokka, and the two men look over at it in unison. Sokka pretends that the device is inconsequential to their current conversation. “You're taking off work for me?" he asks, dumbly. "You didn't even call out when you had the flu and I had to haul your body off the kitchen floor.”"Yeah, well..." Zuko shifts, picks at a non-existent hang nail, brings it to his mouth to bite at. Sokka tracks the movements like the man of science he is, but it does very little to help him solve anything. “Consider this a thank you for the flu-thing, then,” he says around a mouthful of thumb.ORSokka gets into a motorcycle accident and suffers a mortality crisis that makes him want to try and be more emotionally vulnerable. Unfortunately for both himself and Zuko, his roommate, that might mean admitting to himself that he kind-of-sort-of wants to share more than just living space with the other man.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have not proof-read anything. go gentle on me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** This fic depicts a near-death experience due to a motor vehicle accident. It deals with the aftermath both from the perspective of being involve in a traumatic accident, as well as from the perspective of nearly losing someone close. Please take care while reading!

The impact was quick and entirely too painful.

He had held consciousness for nearly twelve minutes after it all was over, lying flat on his back, glass and mechanical components all sprinkled around his broken body like discarded confetti from a very sad party. It was a whopping eleven minutes longer than it took to wind up there in the first place.

Twelve minutes isn't that significant amount of time. Even with being distinctly aware of the smell of burnt rubber and asphalt; nerves throbbing in time with the blaring horns. It is, however, long enough to make some startling life realizations and recollections.

Like, how when he was thirteen he'd borrowed ten dollars from Gran-Gran and had only paid back seven of it. 

Like, how he hadn't bothered to clean up his portion of the shared apartment before leaving that morning, because he told himself he'd head home at a reasonable time to get it done that night; acutely aware of the three coffee mugs sitting next to the sink.

Like, how when he spoke with his dad last, it had just been a rush of information as he ran down the sidewalk, late for a lunch meeting; so preoccupied trying to dodge passerby’s that he hadn't ended the call with a simple and quick 'love ya' like he normally would have, instead just hitting the red button from his end like a douche. 

Now, some twenty yards away from his own motorcycle and the busted up sedan that sent him flying, body broken in various and unknown ways, he had both plenty of time to recall all of these things, and yet still not enough to reflect on them as his mind came in and out of focus of the people shouting around him. 

He was disoriented and fading, and with all his might he tried to focus his breathing and attention on a single object to keep from dipping out from reality forever. 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to look at from a prone position in the middle of the 10. But, there were also worst scenes to die to, he supposed, because the sky was painted technicolor; the reds and oranges of the day bleeding into the purples and blues of the night. 

Vaguely, he thought of the smell of sunscreen and saltwater and sting of sunburnt skin instead of gas fumes and road-rash. The feeling of someone removing his helmet didn’t seem real, either, and it brought with it the sensation of calloused fingers running through the short hairs at his scalp. 

He was slipping, and the red and blue lights that were creeping closer accentuated the colors of the sky in a dizzying affect, so he closed his eyes unwillingly, only to save from retching and drowning in his own bile. He swallowed hard, chest erupting in more pain, and there was the definite taste of blood mixed with something sour, like regret. 

Thankfully, Sokka passed out shortly after that and before he could replay the stupid argument he’d had with Zuko over takeout the previous night.

\----

The next thought that he was conscious of having wasn't immediately associated with pain or guilt, but with an immense amount of confusion about why he couldn't open his eyes.

Later, once he was home in his own bed, it would make sense that the drugs had prevented him from 1) opening his eyes and 2) freaking out about the inability to open his eyes. But, as it was, he was just numb and confused and still slightly nauseous.

He could hear the sound of a fan set on low, and the beeping of his own heart somewhere close to his ear. 

Confused, blind, and senses foggy, Sokka felt the distinct warmth of irritation bubbling in his chest. Yet he didn’t know exactly why or how to place those feelings, so they escaped him in the form of a moan that seemed distant and unfamiliar. 

From somewhere nearby, the sound of a chair scooted across linoleum and something solid and firm squeezed his forearm.

"Sokka?"

Forcefully, with all of the will he could muster, his eyes pulled apart like adhesive from a strip of used tape. And that's when the pain hit.

Blinding and hot, the tears involuntarily sprang to his eyes from the fluorescents overhead. The world spun and he shut his eyes away from the too bright room as his stomach lurched violently, made him gag, and then he was sputtering. The motion sent a new wave of pain through his ribcage and he ended up immobilized by a fit of coughs. 

"Shoot," Katara said. Because it had to be Katara. He’d known that voice for twenty-five years, drugs and pain and retching be damned if he couldn’t recognize his sister. "Dad, the lights!"

The room went dark from behind his lids, and Katara was saying something in a soothing tone as he caught his breath. It took a little while, but eventually he calmed down, pain shooting out from every part of his body, but determined to actually be able to see again. 

Tentatively, he ventured to crack one eyelid. Without experiencing any immediate and new pain, he let the room come into full view, and then introduced his other eye, too. 

It was Katara grabbing his arm like a vice. She was half hovered over the bed, braced with her unoccupied arm against the sheets, like she was ready to perform CPR should he start flat-lining. 

Bato was at the foot of the bed, looking equally unnerved, and from behind him, Sokka could see his dad positioned at the light switch on the wall. 

"Hey," she said. 

It took a few tries, voice raw from smoke inhalation and unusually tight for unknown reasons. But, eventually, he managed his own “Hey.” And because awareness was a bitch and couldn’t just leave well enough alone with the fact that he was alive, he started to pick up on things; like the shaky sigh his sister let out, and the distinct wetness clinging to her cheeks and, oh… Shit. "Are you crying?"

"No!" But she was already wiping with the sleeve of her sweater under her eyes. “I just can't believe that you made us worry like that," she said when she was done, not looking at him directly, but eyes darting his way from under her bangs. “Of all the stupid things you’ve done…” 

And, there it was… The Lecture. 

The Imiq family cure-all for emotional avoidance. 

Sokka was about to call bullshit, defend himself because the accident was not his fault – like, even if he'd been able to swerve into the next lane (which, he hadn’t been able to do, thank you), he still would have lost the rear of the bike, or hit someone else. It wasn’t like he'd had a particularly grand time almost dying, Katara – But, luckily for his broken vocal chords and his new found sense of mortality, his dad swooped in to disarm his children.

"Katara," he warned, stepping up next to her to lay a hand on her shoulder. To Sokka, he asked, "How're you feeling, son?"

Which, to everyone in the room seemed like a pretty weak question, because the answer was so obvious. So, he gave an obvious answer in return, "Like I got hit by a car.” 

The laugh that came from his dad was on the breath of relief and he looked softer than Sokka could ever remember is father’s face being. In fact, he had to wonder when his dad had gotten so old, what with the bags under his blue eyes and the gray almost completely replacing his brown hair. Even his dark skin seemed more tired and drawn than he could remember. 

"Well, then you're feeling pretty on point," he said. 

Sokka was sleep and drug addled, and felt like vomiting, but he was alive and relatively well and he had his family around him – in all honesty, he thought that he was doing good. All things considered, that is. 

"How long was I out?" he asked. 

His dad crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, and eventually opted for sitting down in the chair Katara just vacated. "It’s Wednesday," he said as an answer. It had been Monday the last Sokka could remember. “Do you want the damage report now or later?” 

Everything hurt, so Sokka really had no point of reference to gauge what was damaged and what wasn’t. “Well, my head hurts pretty bad. Concussion?” 

"Slight concussion,” he confirmed. 

Katara had released his arm at some point and was sitting at the foot of the bed, holding herself purposely away from his legs. “No more brain damage than was already pre-existing," she supplied. "The helmet probably saved your life."

Even if it wasn’t the law, Sokka would still have worn the damn helmet, regardless, because that’s what they were made for: To save lives. 

He didn’t dispute this fact, it just was and he was more than happy to put the proper gear on if it meant possibly (and now, actually) ensuring his head didn’t crack like an egg in the case of an accident. 

Both his dad and Bato were both avid motorcycle fans, and so, by extension, it only made sense that Sokka would grow up with a similar addiction to riding small engine machines. Hell, he didn’t even own a car because, though his job as a structural engineer paid well, when gas teetered between three and four dollars he rather have the full efficiency of the motorcycle. Plus, lane splitting was legal in California, and traffic was infamous. 

So, to his dad he said, "Glad you drilled safety gear into our heads as kids.” And to Katara, “Brain’s so big it would cushion itself, though."

Bato was the only one to laugh, grabbing the foot of the bed and giving it a few taps that shook the entire frame, mattress and all. “There he is – cocky as ever. Boy’s going to make a full recovery, Hakoda.”

Sokka must have gone pale, because Bato backed off quickly, shooting out apologies. 

“He might, if you don’t break him more, first,” his dad says, motioning for his friend to hand him the chart hanging by him on the frame. He probably needed his glasses, so he doesn’t bother reading what’s there. If anything, he just holds it like the diagnosis might change suddenly as he rattles off the physical damage. “Three cracked ribs —“ which explains the trouble breathing — “Left leg is broken. They did surgery and put in a few screws —“ which is why Katara is almost standing from her seated position at the end of the bed. His dad makes a face, looks at Katara as if unsure, before he continues, “A broken clavicle,” he says, motioning to his own collarbone, before finishing with, “And a whole canvas painted with road burn."

“Your right eyebrow probably won't grow hair back where they had to do the stitches," Katara says, almost apologetically. 

He reaches up cautiously to feel the tape covering what must be the cut above his eye. 

Sokka would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little vain. He likes his face, is all. But he wasn’t too upset by this news. 

Some hardware in his body and a badass scar? All in all, not so bad for getting hit at nearly 70mph. 

"If that's the price for being alive they could’ve shaved the whole thing off,” he says and means it. 

He doesn’t even dare asks about his bike, because he already knows its trashed. Instead they fill him in on what’s happened in the last day and a half, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize that he won’t last much longer in casual conversation. He can feel himself slipping, eyelids getting heavier than there were only moments before. 

His dad makes the call to leave under the guise of being stuck at the hospital for nearly two days and needing to at least shower. 

Bato’s the first to head to the hallway, turning in the doorway to Sokka and saying, "You had us all pretty worried, kid.” It’s a distant sound now, and he knows he’s about to give in to sleep with or without his current audience present. 

His dad leans down, touches their foreheads together like he used to do when he would leave for deployment for months at a time, and tells him that they’ll be back in a little while. Katara’s squeezing his hand the whole while, before she, too, gets up and heads to the door. 

He’s losing consciousness again for the second time in less than forty-eight hours, but this time he’s fairly certain he’s going to wake up form his nap. His family is almost out the door when Sokka realizes something critically important, and he is practically shooting up from his slouched position and yelling out for his dad like he had truly reverted to being a kid again.

Three heads poke back into the room, all wearing matching looks of concerns.

"Yeah?"

Sokka isn’t conscious enough to articulate his life flashing before his eyes and all the pent-up regrets that it had brought as he thought he was dying, but he does manage to get out a quiet, albeit slurred, "Love ya. All of you."

And maybe his dad understood what his son was unable to convey, because he let out a long sigh and then smiled at his eldest child like he hung the moon. "We love you, too.” And then everything goes dark around the edges, and the door is closed to his room. 

Later, after both the best and worst cat nap in his entire life, there was a constant rotation of visitors. Aang showed up with Toph, both of which ditched their afternoon lecture in favor of harassing him about his various scrapes and bruises, and both staying for over an hour before Sokka shooed them away so that they didn’t miss another class. 

Suki came by after, alone, and Sokka is eternally grateful because she is the one person he can really talk to, and he doesn’t even care when a few tears slide down his cheek, because Suki won’t judge him for it. She stays for nearly two hours and only leaves when a gaggle of co-workers swing by to bust his balls about nearly being obliterated by a Kia Soul. 

Katara and his dad come back sometime between the nurse rotation, Aang now in place of Bato, and they stay all the way until the trio is kicked out by the floor nurse and told that they could come back tomorrow, but that visiting hours were over. 

There are so many people to stop by, in fact, that later that night, after being woken up by one of the nurses so that she can pump more drugs into him and change his crusty bandages, she asks Sokka if he’s someone famous. 

He laughs at that and feels an immediate pool of warmth flood his chest. Everyone has to wonder that when they die, how many people will show up to their funeral. It’s not a thought of narcissism, he doesn’t think, more so just whether or not the people you fill your living life with are there because they want to be, or out of convenience. Sokka got a little peek at the attendance list for when he really dies, and it has everyone he would want to be on there. 

Well, all but one. But after feeling disappointed every time the door opened to reveal a new face that wasn’t who he immediately wanted to see, he had rationalized why he shouldn’t get his hopes up. After all, a hospital was probably the last place in the world that his roommate would want to be for numerous reasons. 

He doesn’t stop to think about that for too long and instead lets the new morphine drip take his mind away from thoughts entirely. 

\----

The next time Sokka wakes up, it’s to sunlight hitting his eyes. Someone had turned the florescent overheads off and pulled the curtains open, and the natural light pools onto the bed at just the right angle that he can feel the warmth seeping back into his skin. 

Sokka lets himself soak in the rays like a cat. He’s not comfortable by any means, but he feels comfort from the tingle of heat and his general aliveness. 

The room is noticeably quiet, all of his many visitors from the day before are gone, but the chair next to his bed is fully occupied.

The absence of any electronic device in Zuko grasp is surprising. It's a foreign look, one that he isn't sure he's seen in the almost decade since knowing the other man. One that he’s positive he hasn’t seen in the last four years of them living together. 

Zuko isn't looking at Sokka. Instead, he has his head bowed, elbows propped on the bed, hands clasped together, and fingers steepled at his hairline. If Sokka didn't know any better, he would have thought that the other man was praying.

Sokka can’t see the scar from their positions, and unlike how his dad had looked twenty years older when he’d been at his bed side, Zuko looks like he’s all of sixteen again, but without the angst and fury of real sixteen-year-old Zuko. 

And as much as Sokka would love to just leave the peaceful moment as it was forever, he’s also a selfish prick, and Zuko is more than a day late to mourn the almost-loss of his best friend, so he has some explaining to do. 

Sokka clears his throat, and Zuko's head snaps to attention, quickly forgetting his new found religion in favor of wringing the sins out of his hands.

Instead of laying right into him, Sokka finds himself having a similar conversation to the one he’d had with Katara yesterday.

"Hey," Sokka starts.

Zuko’s facing him fully now, scar plainly visible. The crease in-between his brows is back and all semblance of helplessness gone as his golden eyes dart everywhere on Sokka’s body but to meet his own eyes. "Hey," he says, finally, voice rougher than its usual gravel, like a cross between disuse and overuse. Obviously, the other man hears this, too. He clears his throat, tries something else to break the tension that Sokka isn’t quite sure why or how it’s even there. "Your dad and Katara just went down to the cafeteria to get coffee. I told them I'd wait with you," he explains, like an explanation is even needed for his presence; like Sokka hadn’t been waiting to see him since yesterday. 

Sokka nods along, anyway. "Sorry for being boring company," he says. 

Zuko fiddles with the end of the wool blanket on Sokka’s bed, darting his gaze down to the busy work of his fingers. He shrugs, quickly saying, "You're not. You make faces in your sleep.” 

The words must have been an absent thought in his mind, because Zuko freezes, still doesn’t meet Sokka’s eyes, and only resumes when Sokka asks, "Is that so?"

He shrugs again, sighing heavily through his nose. "I mean, it's probably the drugs, but..." He lets the blanket drop back against the side of the railing and leans further back into the stiff plastic of the hospital chair. "Yeah," he ends, lamely. 

There’s something more suffocating than burnt rubber and oil lingering in the air, and Sokka, for one, is not here for it. 

Well, he technically has to be physically here for it, because he, unlike Zuko, is kind of on the receiving end of treatment for his injuries. But if Zuko wants to be weird about whatever he’s being weird about, he has no obligation to stay. Shit, that’s probably the whole reason he’s acting strange, he feels obligated to be there now. 

So, Sokka gives him a logical out. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Which, of course, because Zuko’s a stubborn little shit he blatantly ignores. "I called out," he says almost too casually. 

Which is weird, because Zuko doesn’t “call-out.” Zuko eat, sleeps, breathes, and functions for little other reason than to work. In fact, the other man’s tendencies to over-extend and over-work makes the average workaholic look perfectly rational. There is no calling out, or vacation days, or sick days, or late arrivals, or early leaves… Not for Zuko Sozin, the youngest COO of Sozin Inc. after his father’s overdue incarceration and his uncles’ new management style. 

For some reason, the heart-rate monitor picks up its pace next to Sokka, and the two men look over at it in unison. Sokka pretends that the device is inconsequential to their current conversation. “You're taking off for me?" he asks, dumbly. "You didn't even call out when you had the flu and I had to haul your body off the kitchen floor.” 

"Yeah, well..." Zuko shifts, picks at a non-existent hang nail, brings it to his mouth to bite at -- it is the most unhinged move Zuko, king of presentation and manners, has displayed openly in a while. Sokka tracks the movements like the man of science he is, but it doesn’t help him solve anything. “Consider this a thank you for the flu-thing, then,” he says around a mouthful of thumb. 

He’s not in the right mind to play detective right now. Sokka has a headache forming behind his eyes, and if he spends much longer trying to dissect Zuko’s strange mood, he might pass out. 

Instead, he drops the work conversation and plays his cards safe by asking, “How's Tui?"

Tui is a Cockatoo that ventured into their apartment one day nearly three years ago, and never left. They had put up FOUND posters all around town, but after two weeks of dead-end leads and no owner coming forward, Sokka had come home with a probably too large cage and all the accoutrements in the bird section of their local pet store. Zuko almost disowned them both. Something about not having enough time with work and school, and the fact that Tui mimicked an array of annoying sounds. 

So, officially, Tui was Sokka’s. But secretly, Zuko loved the damn bird just as much if not more than Sokka himself. 

"Good," he says. "I took her out of your room and set up her cage in the living room. She wouldn’t stop beeping and I thought she might be lonely.” 

"Of course," he says, finding himself nodding along to Zuko’s words yet again. "You know you can just let Katara take her, if it's too much trouble." He doesn’t mean it and he knows Zuko would never do it, anyway. But they’re playing a weird game of distance right now, so he makes the suggestion. 

"I don't mind.” Is the natural response that Sokka is expecting. Then comes the less expected, “I think we both need the company.” And Zuko looks him in the eyes, finally. His jaw works for a few seconds, like he’s trying to grind away the next few words, but they slip out, anyway. “The apartment is kind of empty feeling right now.” 

Now this, Sokka could work with. Because Zuko is like a porcupine. He’s sharp and rough and far scarier on the exterior than he is on the interior. He’s always on the defensive, always quick to disarm you with words or, on the few occasions that Sokka’s witnessed it in a necessary moment, physically. He likes to keep people at arms length and emotionally distant, but – and Sokka is almost positive that Zuko doesn’t even realize this – he needs people. He needs his uncle, Sokka knows. But, he also needs friends to joke with, and companionable silence over tea. He’s lived with the other man for four years, so Sokka feels like something of a Zuko expert, and he could flaunt it without shame. 

“Are you saying that you miss me?" he asks, smile threatening to break his face. 

Zuko huffs, turns away again, throwing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Don’t flatter yourself.” Too late, Sokka thinks. “I'm just saying that your absence is noticeable." Zuko brings both hands together again, wrings them thoroughly, and then glances at Sokka. “If anything, the apartment is more orderly without you. There’s no coffee cups in the sink, and the toothpaste cap isn’t halfway down the drain each morning.” It comes out in a rush, and Sokka isn’t even offended as he continues on, “And it's quieter – but if I hear somethinf in the kitchen at 2 A.M. I actually have to get up now, because I know it’s not you. So, like, that’s inconvenient.” 

"I must be dead.” Because even if Zuko is still trying to find new ways to blame Sokka for bothering his life, he hears the truth behind the words -- "Zuko Sozin actually cares about me!"

If he wasn’t bound to a hospital bed by an IV and tubes aplenty, Sokka would have done something stupid with as much giddiness that was pumping through his veins. 

"Stop being stupid," Zuko says. But there’s a blush coloring his cheeks that does not go unnoticed by Sokka. 

Sokka leans back into his pillows, fixing Zuko with a shit eating grin. "Well, hopefully they'll let me out of here soon so I can fill the void in your life.” 

Zuko doesn’t even miss a beat before he says, "The doctors said you'll be in here at least another day.” 

The thought that Zuko knew about what his doctors were saying took him by surprise. To Sokka, Zuko had just gotten here. It couldn’t be that late in the date, if the sun was any indication. It probably was only a little after visiting hours had begun, and yet…

He disregards it quickly, instead choosing the easy way out. "Well, at least I won't be keeping you from your beauty sleep. Maybe you'll actually be able to go into the office and be nice to people."

"Well, I mean, yeah that'd be nice, but I’m out of the office until next Wednesday,” he says. Sokka was still a little lost, but if the accident was Monday, and yesterday was Wednesday, that meant today was Thursday. “I’ve been working from my laptop,” he interjects quickly, probably sensing Sokka’s complete and utter confusion. “And I figured you’d need help at home once you get released.” That wasn’t helping the confusion, Zuko. The man in question sighed, gave a forced smile, and then tried a different tactic. “I brought you by some stuff.” 

Zuko hauled Sokka’s backpacks onto the bed from the floor. It was a good distraction, because Sokka loved stuff and Zuko knew that. 

He wasn’t a hoarder (yet) but even when he traveled, he didn’t pack light. Being awake without some familiar items was bound to drive him crazy if he was expected to stay bed ridden for another day. 

Sokka gave his friend a wary look, before taking the bag and rifling through it like it wasn’t just a bunch of his own belongings. 

It wasn’t much. Some clothes– presumably because the ones he’d been wearing upon entering the hospital had been surgically removed form his body – just some sweat pants, his favorite Pink Floyd t-shirt from The Wall, a plain black hoodie. Then, he reached the good stuff: There was his laptop and charger, the book from his bedside table, a variety of every snack from their cabinets at home, and what looked like Zuko’s old cell phone form two years ago. 

Sokka hadn’t even had a chance to think about it yet, but it dawned on him that his own phone must have ended up getting destroyed in the accident. It had been in his leather jacket’s pocket, but after summersaulting through the air and doing a dozen rolls on the pavement, there was no way it made it out alive. 

He turned the phone over in his hand, pressed the power button, and saw it was Sokka’s background picture from his own phone – a group picture off all their friends from high school. “Your memory card was still good, so we put it in this one so you’d have some way to communicate with the outside world. We can get a new phone once you’ve healed up some more.” 

Suddenly, Sokka felt the overwhelming need to cry again. That sour taste was back in his mouth, and, for some reason, he was both incredibly sad and incredibly happy by the fact that Zuko knew him so well. He sniffs dramatically, pretends to wipe a tear that was very close to actually falling from his eye, and turns to Zuko, clutching his backpack to his chest. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he jokes. 

But he means it, truly. 

Zuko’s looking at him like he wants to say something. Sokka can see the confliction working itself out behind his eyes, his mouth opens, shuts, and he's chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well. Me neither,” is all he ends up saying.

The lack of… Well, he isn’t really sure what – but there is a clear lack of it happening and it's Sokka’s turn to feel conflicted, like maybe he needs to say something. 

Almost dying changes a man, after all. And now Sokka wants to say everything that’s on his mind. But, right now he’s not sure how to explain to his roommate that he thinks he wants to kiss him when doesn't even understand the sudden urge yet himself. 

Katara’s voice echoes from down the hallway, and the bubble they were in bursts too quickly to figure out all of the questions bouncing around in his head. Sokka looks away and Zuko jumps out of his seat like he’s only just realize that he's sat on tacks. They don’t look at each other as Katara and his dad enter the room, but Sokka can just catch Zuko mumbling under his breath, “Just try to not die again and we’ll be even.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few house keeping notes: 
> 
> 1) This was supposed to be a short little diddy after writing the beginning on my phone at 12am. Somewhere around the 4k word point, i realized this wasn't going to be as little as i had originally anticipated. 
> 
> 2) So, we're probably gonna get at least three chapters out of this. Max. of 4 chapters.
> 
> 3) I know very little about motorcycles or California. 
> 
> 4) idk how to write man, but i give it my damn well best
> 
> 5) if you like this, let me know. if not, go gentle on my soul, please
> 
> p.s. For anyone that drives a Kia Soul -- i'm sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** This fic depicts a near-death experience due to a motor vehicle accident. It deals with the aftermath both from the perspective of being involve in a traumatic accident, as well as from the perspective of nearly losing someone close. Please take care while reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how y'all read last chapter with all the typos. I AM SO SORRY. writing is hard. 
> 
> and though last chapter was riddled with errors, that does not mean i proof-read this one... yet....

In a rare twist of fate, it’s raining in L.A. when Sokka is told that he’ll be released. 

It couldn’t have been any later than 7 A.M. when the hoard of lab coats crept into his room and stood at the foot of his bed, like a horrifying medical coven there to perform sacrificial tribute. The main doctor explains aftercare to a half-conscious Sokka while the interns keep their clipboards posed and ready for documenting the encounter, because medical malpractice lawsuits are a real thing.

Sokka is spacey, the pain medicine still fogging his brain, so after the initial shock of being jarred from his semi-sleep, he zones out in favor of watching the rain pelt the window screen. The clinging droplets distorts the cityscape until the peeks and valleys of the roof warp into something abstract, but it’s more entertaining to track the devolution of the clay tiles than hear about how he’ll be stuck in a cast and a sling for the next four to six weeks.

He doesn’t know whether to take the rain as a good omen for his new lease on life, or if it’s just par for the course given his current physical state.

Regardless, and despite the prospect of being able to go home and actually sleep (because sleep in a hospital just does _not_ exist, he has learned the hard way), Sokka can’t help the looming feeling that life outside of the hospital’s walls is somehow different than when he had entered them just a few days prior.

It’s not necessarily a bad premonition. It’s just something thick and vaguely fuzzy vibrating in the pit of his stomach; like a caterpillar threatening to break free from its newly formed cocoon. It leaves him contemplative and oddly moody, nonetheless.

And because everything in a hospital is a flurry of rushing and waiting and then some combination of the two, Sokka finds himself eventually alone and on the latter extreme with plenty of time to mull the feeling over. Not that he particularly wants to be stuck in the middle of a philosophical crisis at early-as-shit-AM, but given his current circumstance, it is inevitable, he thinks.

Zuko’s old phone is face down on the starched sheets, and Sokka hasn’t really found the urge to do anything more with it than check the time every so often. He knows that he needs to get dressed and ready to be discharged, but the prospect of moving is incredibly difficult, like the weight of his thoughts has shut down his motor skills.

Trauma must do something funny to the brain -- like maybe it doesn’t get enough oxygen, or, it jars reality so that it can no longer sit correctly on its axis – because in just the last twelve hours alone, Sokka had caught himself being consumed by a weird limbo between past and present and where reality just sort of stopped being a thing.

Like, how the previous night, he had fixated on the significance of a saltine cracker for nearly half an hour; how it reminded him of being a kid again. Of sharing a sleeve and some peanut-butter between himself and his father during the quiet late nights when his dad was actually home.

Like, how the nurse that came in to check on him during the night rotation had smelled like spruce needles, and how it transported him back to wintry Alaska; of damp clothes hung by a hearth in Gran-Gran’s house, and the steady staccato of a sharp knife impressing tiny slices on a wooden cutting board.

Like, how in the early hours of the morning, after several attempts to keep the thoughts at bay, Sokka gives in and thinks about his mom; of warm hugs attached to a shadowed face and a distorted voice.

In the past, when he had found his mind drifting to the time-faded memories, it had been hard enough to try to discern between which were real and which were just figments of his imagination. Now, being older and wiser and having experienced life flashing before his own eyes, he knows it’s not exclusively either; just some adulterated recollection of both.

He wonders if he had gotten flattened on the 10, how long it would have taken for his family to forget him, too.

It’s a macabre thought, but the reel had just kept spinning as Sokka continued to fall into the depressing and angst ridden vortex of what it means to be alive for the better part of the night.

It’s probably the culprit for the uneasiness he feels in place of the excitement at being released. The general mood feels infinitely more caustic at the prospect of going back home and pressing resume on life, like it was only just temporarily paused.

Sure, he had a job he liked well enough and that paid decently (for L.A. standers, at least). He lived in a comfortable apartment. He had friends to go get drinks with on a Friday night. And, though he and Suki hadn’t been together in well over three years and he’d only been on a handful of unsuccessful dates since then, he had thought that he was relatively happy in his bachelorhood.

Content, at the very least.

And, of course, he had Zuko. Coolest roommate in the entire world. Total bro to be best bros with.

A real close dude-bro-buddy-friend-of-his that Sokka had wanted to kiss just yesterday over something so stupid, like sentiment.

Which, logically, he knew he could play off as a mixture of pain and medicine. But, the more he thought about it, the more the butterflies in his stomach threatened to burst out.

And barring the whole near-death thing, he’s not too caught in his own delusions to overlook the glaring fact that Zuko was _not_ interested in him like that.

Which has always been okay.

It’s still _okay_.

Sokka is a grown-ass adult and sometimes that meant having a crush on your best-friend-and-roommate for years in silence.

Being hospital bound and tethered to IVs should have no direct affect on _that_ dirty secret.

Except, it kind of does.

And that’s probably the most damaging thing about this whole mess.

Now that he had experienced the fear of not being honest with himself, it was like a flood gate had been opened and honesty was all that wanted to come pouring out. Honesty, like how the sheer amount of regret he’d had lying on the highway had scarred him nearly as much as dying. Acceptance of simple truths, like how he seems to collect his emotions in bottles to save for later -- **later** _later **later**_ …

Always for later, because procrastinating feelings is his forte. He’s a professional at this point. He’s been doing it all his life.

In the early morning hours, lying in a hospital room waiting to leave, the rain clinging to the window screen and obscuring the city, he thinks that he might be ready to change.

But, first, before he can continue to contemplate the totality of his sum, he has to get out of the damn hospital gown.

**\---**

It takes several attempts of inner pep-talking for Sokka to convince his body that he’s okay enough to move.

It takes several more to put forth the effort to manipulate his body to do just that.

No one has come to kick him out yet, but he also hasn’t told anyone that he’s leaving, and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll get the vacate notice in the form of discharge papers.

The plan was originally to get dressed, call his dad or Katara to let them know that he was being released. Then, if he had time, to call work to see how much time off he had left and hash out the logistics of working from home for a little bit; at least until he could move his arm and maybe get into a rental car.

The plan was all well and good, but it had been over an hour, and he still hadn’t made it past phase one yet.

The morphine haze eased up a little while ago, so he’s not meditating on his own being or thinking of his mom or trying to squash anything to do with Zuko down anymore, so things could be worse for his psyche. 

He is, however, pretty fucked in other ways.

Because even though getting pants on hadn’t been as terrible as he’d thought it would be -- thanks in large part to Zuko choosing his baggiest pair of sweats -- Sokka still finds himself full on sweating and in a terrible and literal bind.

His good arm had made it through the short sleeve of his shirt just fine, but his collarbone and ribs had protested quick, firm, and without refute when he tried to get the other arm through.

The string of curses he’d let out were so vile that Sokka had half expected to see Gran-Gran’s apparition in the corner just to smite him.

Luckily, he’d had the wherewithal to stay seated before making the attempt to dress himself. Otherwise, he would have been flat on the floor by now, ready to be re-admitted for head trauma because no one thought it wise to stick a helmet on him 24/7.

A little less luckily, maybe, but that also meant that he was stuck, near flailing on the mattress, entrapped in his own makeshift, one-armed straight-jacket.

Logistically, there is little else for him to do besides to try and retry to get his damn arm to work, nearly cry from the pain, spend five minutes regaining his breath, and then repeating the process twice over until he was dizzy. Statistically, the fact that it took as long as it had for him to be caught with his pants up and shirt down while he fought (and lost) against his restraints was already improbable. Least he forgets that the universe was cruel and humored by his own mortification, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when the cautious knock came and waited for a response.

Sokka half-contemplated shouting for whoever was on the other side – doctor, nurse, God himself - to go away until he could sort himself out. Which probably wasn’t going to happen given the amount of failed attempts thus far, but he still had options! He didn’t know what those options were, but he felt faintly certain that they existed if he just had a little while longer to think them through.

He missed the opportunity to do anything but look up at the opening door while mulling it over.

And while Sokka tried to pretend that everything was cool, Zuko just stood in the doorway, expressionless, save for a slight tilt of his head.

Because, of course it had to be Zuko to catch him. It couldn’t be someone safe and nice and that he totally hadn’t been angst-ing over just a little while ago.

The thought occurred to him that he _just wanted to die_. But he nearly had done just that a few days before, and, truthfully, he had never wanted to live so much in his entire life than at that present moment in time. Current predicament be damned.

It didn’t stop his heart from hammering so hard against his chest that it made his ribs ache. He almost wondered if Zuko could see the beating pattern through the exposed skin where his shirt was riding up.

Zuko had seen him butt-ass naked before and Sokka hadn’t cared, but right now it does little to ease the embarrassment that bleeds over into aggravation. “Keep ogling and I’ll start charging admission,” he huffs.

The distinct cough was probably just a cover for a laugh, and it’s just so like Zuko to try to keep dignity for someone else in order to save his own. “I am not _ogling_ ,” Zuko says, continuing to ogle from the doorway.

Sokka just lets out another huff, embarrassment motivating him enough to grit his teeth and take his bad arm with his good arm and shove it through the sleeve. He doesn’t scream, but the pain that shoots through his upper body is white hot, leaves him drenched in another layer of cold sweat, a severe moan escaping him that might have sounded better as a scream.

Again, he is left without an important appendage making it through the hole in the shirt. This time, that appendage being his head. 

“Would you like some help?”

When Sokka was younger, he was too damn fulsome for his own good.

He had _ideas_ about life. Archaic and nasty narrow-minded thoughts that, in hindsight, he isn’t really sure how he’d been lead to believe them to be true.

Like, how women couldn’t fight or cuss or hunt.

Like, how crying meant you were weak.

Like, how chocolate pudding was just thicker chocolate milk.

However, some things from youth were harder to let go of than sexism and lacking the ability of distinction. His pride still clung desperately to his consciousness no matter how many years of embarrassing acts he had to endure.

And though he was more broken bone and marred skin than man at this point, his pride was bruised now, too, and that maybe hurt the most.

So, though he could probably use a hand ( _literally_ ) right about now, his knee-jerk response is a bland, “Not really.” But he’s twenty-five and struggling to dress himself, and despite what Katara would say, he had grown-up, somewhat. So, grudgingly, only after a decent amount of wiggling, for appearance sake, he adds, “But since you’re just standing there…”

There are a lot of reasons why Sokka gets along with Zuko, and vice versa.

For one, they’re both stubborn. Which, on its face, is not a particularly _logical_ reason to get along with someone else. But, it works for them. It makes choosing takeout and movies more interesting, at the very least.

Then, there is their shared addiction to music. Zuko is more classical and Sokka is more classic rock, but there is always something playing on the radio or through the Bluetooth speaker at their apartment. Finding someone who did not care about the playlist switching from Debussy to Meatloaf was about the only way Sokka would be able to describe pure love.

Yet, the real pièce de résistance, the true common denominator for why the two got along so well was because they are both absurdly awkward.

Sokka can admit to this as just another fact of life.

Zuko, on the other hand, tries his best to appear to be anything but awkward. And he fails miserably every time.

Like, right now, as he tries to disarm the blatantly uncomfortable situation by saying, “At least you have pants on.” Like the idea that he’s obviously checked to make sure Sokka has pants on _isn’t_ awkward or anything.

And while Sokka gives him a _look_ through the t-shirt, one in which he tries to convey _you’re an idiot and I might love you,_ crossed with _, thank you for at least trying to help,_ but only one eyebrow is visible, so the effect is lost.

He can feel Zuko step into his personal space, and there are a few seconds of apprehension before his head pops through the hole fully. Then his shirt is being rolled down his back by a cautious hand, and Sokka wonders if he is actually on fire when Zuko accidently brushes his finger tips down his spine.

He’s so thankful for his dark skin at the present moment because he knows he would be blushing otherwise. Zuko’s cheeks, on the other hand, are smattered with pink as he steps back, uncertainty rolling off of him in waves.

The whole ordeal leaves Sokka feeling flustered and sour, and Zuko is really not to blame, but he sort of is, so naturally he has to get the brunt of Sokka’s mood.

“Thanks,” is all he can manage before he tries to scoot back across the bed and to the headboard. It’s a slow effort, and he winces the entire way.

Zuko just nods slowly, watching Sokka carefully like he might break.

He has never hated a look on someone’s face more in his entire life. He just wants to make the expression disappear; to blanch the appearance of fear and worry and forget whatever heaviness that he has forced to worm between them because of misplaced feelings.

Mercifully, in some type of unspoken understanding, Zuko schools his expression into something a little more passive. He clears his throat again, then changes tactics, “The nurse said you’re being discharged?”

He’s not angry at Zuko. He’s angry at the _situation_. Zuko just so happens to be in the situation currently. But, there’s a _difference_. Nonetheless, that doesn’t stop his reply from coming out as a snippy, “Yep.”

After some uncertain mulling, Zuko reclaims the empty hospital chair where he has spent the last few days; right leg crossed over his left knee, and looking all out of place against the horrible pink plastic in dark jeans and a gray raincoat.

Sokka notices for the first time how puffy the other man’s eyes are, like he hasn’t been sleeping, which, admittedly is not out of the norm for either of them. It’s a odd sensation to know that he is a direct contributor to the tautness that stretches across the other man’s scarred eye and few days’ worth of unshaven hair sprouting along his angular jaw.

There’s no fear of feeling guilty of narcissism, because he knows that he is directly related to the deterioration of prim and proper Zuko Sozin, and Zuko Sozin being his number one hospital visitor since he’d pulled a Lazarus.

It may have been more tolerable if Zuko wasn’t looking at him so attentively and without the usual cell phone or laptop to be used as a distraction. Zuko’s golden eyes are piercing and genuine as he asks, “Any idea when exactly you can leave?”

He must be oblivious to the inner turmoil that Sokka is currently churning through right now. Having the audacity to be kind and caring and looking at him with a perfectly unreadable expression but voice tinged with exhausted concerns. “Nope,” Sokka manages.

It comes across rather terse, and the look on Zuko’s face twitches to something easier for Sokka to digest: annoyance.

“Gotcha.” Zuko uncrosses his legs, alternates them so the left is over the right, and then as casually as if they weren’t on some dangerous precipice, asks, “Any particular reason why you’re being such an ass today?”

Because Sokka can’t compute, he opts for just shrugging.

“Right,” Zuko says, rising from his seat. “Well, obviously I’m not welcome here, so I think I’m going to go fuck off,” he gestures a thumb over to the door, eyes firmly locked on Sokka as he backs in the same direction. “Maybe visit the morgue to look for your personality. Or the cafeteria.” He made it to the door, pauses to give that idea some serious thought. “Same difference, really.”

It’s funny.

Really.

It is.

Zuko shouldn’t look at him like he’s crazy when he barks out a laugh and almost convulses from the pain the erupts in his ribs.

It’s funny because it’s true and familiar and Sokka has no idea why communicating right now is so difficult when it shouldn’t be, and it’s just hysterical.

Zuko is half way back back to Sokka, concern etching the good side of his face, but Sokka just waves a hand blindly, trying to indicate that he’s fine. “I’m just aggravated,” he says after a few calming breaths. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. So – sorry,” he ends, lamely.

And if anyone should know about recovery and aggravation, it’s Zuko, with one half of his face marred with scar tissue and even more damage left hidden under the surface.

Sokka had known the other man when he was still vicious and hurt and looking to make everyone around him hurt, too. It took years for him to get heal those wounds, so Sokka knows that that Zuko _gets_ it.

But Sokka likes to fix things with his hands and work through how to solve problems with his head. Period. Those are where his skill sets are aimed. It took a lot of years to learn to be okay with being normal in the midst of so many extraordinary people, but he knows there is value in acting as Den Mother. It’s honorable and it’s his role to play and he is more than okay with playing second fiddle if it means everything is running fine.

But he can’t play his role if everyone is worrying about him. Between his early morning angst and current existential crisis, he isn’t quite sure what he is, and he’s scared that the familiar feelings of uselessness will start to threaten to drag him under again.

Sokka tries not to dwell on those thoughts. Not when Zuko is looking at him like he’s not the only one who’s spinning out of control.

Zuko stays standing for a few more moments and drags a hand across his face before he decides to sit back down. “I’ll forgive you this one time, but only because you’re in a hospital bed and I pity you.”

It eases away some of the tension, and Sokka feels slightly better after his outburst. “If I knew I only had one Forgiveness Card to play, I sure as hell wouldn’t have used it for _this_!”

“Yeah, well –“ Zuko shrugs out of his raincoat, indicating that he’ll be staying.

There is no further explanation or information that Zuko provides, so they fall into a relatively comfortable quiet.

Sokka isn’t sure why, but that makes him relax even more.

He also decides that his brain has psychoanalyzed his inner thoughts enough for one day, so he leans back on the pillows and says, “So, what is your stance on chocolate pudding just being a thicker chocolate milk?”

Zuko barely misses a beat, just taking enough time to re-adjust in his chair as he asks, “Are we basing it off of ingredients or its structural properties?” 

The grin threatens to split Sokka’s face, and he can feel the tug on the stiches above his eye. “Glad you asked…”

**…**

The hospital keeps them waiting for two more hours. They don’t debate the definitions of foods the entire time, but they do watch some day time TV, giving loud and unreciprocated feedback to the show’s less savory guests.

And it’s only when they get bored of that do they break out their cell phones to play some quiz game. To no one’s surprise, Sokka wins almost every match. Almost, because Zuko had gotten over on him by answering correctly on who the first woman to practice at the Supreme Court was. The result was that every time Sokka got a question wrong, Zuko would mutter “Belva Lockwood would have known that.” Because he was a little shit.

It was only after the two had gotten too loud for the nurses to stand that Sokka was politely discharged with a handful of papers and instructions to wait to be wheeled out of the building and – _no, Mr. Imiq, you cannot have your friend carry you_.

He’s given a clear plastic bag with the clothes he had entered the hospital with; all now belonging in the trash, save for his boots. His phone is down towards the bottom completely destroyed. Neither Sokka nor Zuko mention anything about the blood stains as he shoves the carnage into his backpack next to the half eaten snacks, and he tells himself the turning in his stomach is only nausea from hunger.

By the time they do manage to make it outside, Sokka is legitimately hungry. He tells Zuko as much, and despite growing up with money aplenty, his roommates answer is a typical and frugal offering of food from home.

Sokka can only stare at him in disbelief because he’s been living off applesauce and plastic turkey since regaining consciousness, and God only knows how they were getting nutrients into him before that…

He shudders, tries not to think about it. Instead… “Can we _please_ stop by In-N-Out on the way home?”

“You literally only think about food, don’t you?”

“I’m a simple man with simple needs – and I’m telling you, I need a 3x3.”

“Fine.”

They don’t argue about it after that, but Zuko is playing at being peeved off sitting through the drive-thru. And even after that as he watches Sokka tear his way through the processed meaty goodness in the passenger seat.

Zuko glares as Sokka tries to shove fries in his face, but he eats them all the same. The glare doesn’t ease up as they go through the pharmacy line to pick-up Sokka’s prescriptions, and remains in place as he frowns straight ahead while they sit in traffic, hands firmly placed at ten-and-two on the wheel.

Sokka is satiated and knows Zuko isn’t really upset, so he lets his head rest against the window. It’s not raining, but the clouds are still hanging heavy over the city, and Sokka watches them as they creep along the highway at twenty miles an hour, because no one in L.A. knows how to drive in the rain.

“It would have been a shit day to ride,” he says, offhandedly and voice tinged with sleep. If he were working today, he might have opted for the bus instead. Maybe begged a ride out of Zuko, if he forced himself to get up early enough.

Zuko doesn’t say anything, but when Sokka shoots him a tired look he can see the windshield threatening to shatter under the weight behind the other man’s stare, grip tightening on the steering wheel.

It’s the first time that his frown cracks and something akin to a genuine flash of emotion crosses his face. It’s smoothed over just a moment later, but the impression lingers in the glass.

Sokka’s new found commitment to emotional vulnerability almost pushes him into making the mistake of asking what that was about. But he’s full and getting sleepy and just plain comfortable, dammit.

He tells himself he isn’t evading anything as he leans his head back against the cool glass and shuts his eyes.

**…**

It could have been twenty minutes or two hours, but eventually consciousness comes back to him in disjointed waves.

There is a distinct and heavy smell of burnt rubber and asphalt, but it quickly morphs into heated leather and jasmine air freshener as he opens his eyes to meet two hard set pools of amber. He isn’t sure whether he is imaging the additional warmth on his forearm as Zuko retracts his hand to his own side of the car, but he swears the tingling on his skin is shaped like the outline of gentle finger tips.

He does know that he isn’t imaging the red blooming across Zuko’s nose, but the car is heating up fast now that he’s awake, and it’s easy enough to dismiss despite how much his heart beats against his broken ribs.

“Time to get out of your chariot, princess,” Zuko says quickly. His voice is raspy from disuse, and suddenly Sokka’s brain pieces together that it’s almost too warm in the car, like they’ve been sitting there several minutes with the air off. Before he can think too much about that, Zuko is swinging open his own car door and shuffling out into the muggy L.A. air with a casual and definitively dismissive, “We’re home.”

By the time Zuko gets around the car and is opening Sokka’s door, the moment is almost entirely forgotten in favor of focusing on not busting his face on the pavement.

Though the complex they live in is on the nicer side (not the nicest, but still decent enough for Sokka’s standards) the elevator is perpetually broken. They only live on the third floor, but it still takes another twenty minutes to get Sokka up the couple of flights of stairs and they’re both left winded form the effort. 

Still, Sokka doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy be anywhere in his entire life, and he says as much to Zuko, who is busy fishing out his keys to unlock the door.

“Remember those words at 2 A.M. when the Martins wake up,” is Zuko’s serious reply. 

Truthfully, Sokka had managed to complain about their apartment nearly every second from the day they moved in. And since then, it had only gotten worse as it had gotten smaller from him dragging in one project after the other until the overflow from his own room extended into the living room, all stacked in organized little piles, neatly labeled and dated. Zuko hardly complained anymore when a stack of papers and designs would be replaced with a functional model, even if it meant giving up the little dining table for a few days. Of course, Sokka had to deal with Zuko’s head constantly shedding in the bathroom and clogging the drains, so it was a fair trade.

They both can afford bigger and better and _separate_ places, even in L.A., but the apartment is home, they tell themselves, so they’ve stayed put.

Once the door is open, Zuko resumes his place as Sokka’s crutch as they make their way over the threshold. 

There is a distinct and varied set of beeps and squawks coming from the living room at the sound of the door closing, and Sokka momentarily forgets everything as he hobbles his way towards the living room, using the wall and then the counter in place of his left leg.

He’d been given crutches, but the sling his arm was in meant it was nearly impossible to fully maneuver without jeopardizing something else, so they had stayed put in the trunk of Zuko’s car. Besides, Sokka had already been devising ways to rig up something to help him walk independently without aggravating the rest of his injuries. He’d need to disassemble Zuko’s bike (temporarily!) and he wasn’t quite sure how to broach that topic yet.

Sokka makes it around the corner using the wall, and the rooms erupts in a series of noise as Tui bounces from one side of the cage to the next. 

“Now she decides to speak,” Zuko says as he goes to the cage and opens the door.

No sooner than the cage is opened then Tui is flying out and bee-lining for Sokka. He has just enough time to angle his bad shoulder out of the way before Tui all but crash lands onto his right one and proceeds to nudge against the side of his head.

“Hello, birdy,” he says, brushing the feathers back along her neck. “Has Zuko been absolutely awful to you, too?” Her crest is fully displayed and she beeps several times like Sokka can understand her. He pretends he can, eyeing Zuko suspiciously and nodding along like the two are conspiring against him. 

Zuko just rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and all put juts out his chin like a petulant child. “I have been nothing but nice to her. She’s the one who keeps attacking _me_.”

“I don’t believe it for a second.” As if to prove a point, Sokka sticks his finger out to the bird’s beak for her to nip at, which she does so, _so_ gently. 

Zuko looks between the two with mock disgust and something a little more tender as he says, “She’s just happy to see you.”

“Glad to see someone missed me,” he says, more for the benefit of Zuko than Tui, but all three know it’s a lie.

Zuko rolls his eye, crosses and uncrosses his arms, and then just sort of stands there, shifting his weight.

They don’t take off much. Both work long hours and when they’re not working, they’re not home, either; usually going to meet up with Katara and Aang and Toph and Suki…

“So,” Zuko says. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Me neither,” he answers, honestly. Tui bounces from his shoulder to his arm, bobbing her head from side to side to get his attention. He scratches at her head absently, much like one would do with a dog. “I think I need my planner.”

Almost grateful for a directive, Zuko is already down the hallway when he says over his shoulder, “I’ll get it.” He comes back, black binder in hand, and sets it on the coffee table before stepping around the wooden surface towards Sokka. “I think the cops have your backpack,” he says, letting Sokka use him like a crutch to shamble to the couch, Tui jumping on Zuko’s shoulder this time to catch the free ride.

His backpack… with his work laptop, blueprints, notebook and, of course, his daily driver binder filled with half-ass sketches and dates and times for all major plans. The loss hurts a little more than the loss of his bike, maybe. “I’m going to have to re-do everything…” he mutters to himself, but Zuko is the one that looks guilty. “Okay,” he says, quickly. He still has his back-up. It’s fine. “Everything will be fine,” he says confidently.

All the contents in his bag is replaceable. His bike is replaceable. There isn’t anything lost that can’t be purchased or re-created.

While he sets to work in his planner, Zuko takes up his usual spot in the arm chair by the window, grabbing a discarded book that Sokka had left on the sill last week.

It still takes roughly forty-five minutes to outline Operation Broken to Better. In that time, he also texts his family to let them know he’s home, shoots another message to the group chat with a .gif of a baby escaping its crib and a message reading “FREEDOM,” got the all clear form Piando to work from home for the next two weeks starting Monday; and confirmed with Haru that he will bring him a replacement laptop sometime tomorrow.

Everything is fine, truly.

**…**

While Sokka had been occupied scheming a recovery plan, his friends had been making plans of their own.

Specifically, Sokka’s _Celebration of Continued Living_ , as Aang later dubbed it.

Katara was sent up first, because she had grown up with him and therefore was the only one qualified to judge her brother’s state to receive guests.

She had excepted to find Sokka in his bed, bemoaning his temporary sedentary life while watching soap operas. Instead, she had interrupted Sokka bossing Zuko around as he – they? – dissembled a bike in their living room and fastened pieces of it to a broken stool.

And if that wasn’t confirmation enough for the injured party’s physical wellbeing, well, then they had brought home the wrong Sokka Imiq.

It hadn’t taken long after that before the living room was crammed with bodies, bike parts, and a very chatty bird.

While Tui loves guests, because that meant more people to pay attention to her, Zuko absolutely hates guests, because that meant more people to pay attention to him.

Lucky for him, then, that everyone greats Tui first for equal parts fear of being attacked later and a genuine appreciation for the bird. Once Tui is satisfied enough to fly back to her perch, they zone in on Sokka himself and Zuko is more than happy to abandon him in favor of occupying the chair in the corner.

Sokka gives him a betrayed look because, though he normally is a happy neutral to entertaining, at the present moment, Aang has already nearly shattered the rest of his rib cage, and Toph clapped him so hard on his good shoulder he is concerned it may not function anymore, either. The only one he is really only grateful for, outside of Katara, is Suki, who pushes Toph out of the way to take up the seat next to him, subtly grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

“For what it’s worth, you look the same to me, Snoozles,” Toph says, curling up on the arm rest next to Suki and kicking her feet in the other girl’s lap for spite.

Suki bats at her feet but they stay firmly in place. She leans further back in an attempt to knock Toph backwards, but Zuko is looking concerned for his renter’s insurance so she stops.

From the armchair to his right, Katara ignores them all and instead fiddles with with her drawstring bag.

“We got you something,” she says.

“I picked out the wrapping,” Toph interjects. Suki nudges her, less violently, but enough to illicit a small protest. “Okay! Geeze. I _supplied_ the wrapping. Better?” 

“It took some persuading,” Katara begins, fiddling with a gift bag that proclaimed IT’S A WOOKIE! in neon pinks and pastel browns. “But the insurance company eventually gave in and let us go get some of your stuff.”

In a few weeks, Sokka will probably want to talk about his bike. If there are pictures, he might even want to look at them. Right now, though, the thought of his little sister having to shuffle through bent metal to recovery bits of his life makes him sick to his stomach.

He tries to swallow down the bile as his sister hands him the bag, too big smile not quite reaching his eyes. It’s for the second time since the accident that Sokka is being gifted with his own belongings, and he couldn’t be happier.

From the depths of the Star Wars themed nightmare are binder clipped pieces of loose leaf paper and he brings them out into the room as carefully as someone else would hold a new born baby. “My notebooks!”

Some of the pages are torn, some are still attached to the metal spirals. But the collection is without a doubt a myriad of his own chicken scrawl and pencil sketches. 

“Apparently some of them got run over in the road,” Aang says carefully as Sokka inspects each page like they are each a precious artifact.

Sokka must be a little depraved, because he tilts the cover he’s holding into the light and tries to look for the tire marks. “Guess it’s better the backpack than me, am I right?” His laugh is a little too loud, or maybe it’s just the fact that no one else is joining in with him. Zuko straight up shoots him a look that is something akin to astonishment, and Suki gently nudges his knee for not knowing how to read a room. “Or too soon?” he asks.

“Too soon,” they say in unison.

He finds himself checking for any lingering upset on Zuko’s face first, and the other man just stares at him blankly until Sokka makes repeated kissy faces that force Zuko to roll his eyes away. 

“Noted,” he says to the room as he turns back to Katara. She’s looking between him and Zuko, a crease cut in between her eyebrows that usually means she’s trying to figure something out. Choosing to deliberately interrupt whatever is running through her mind, he says directly to Katara, “Thanks for getting these back.” And he means it with the most sincerity he can force into the few words.

From the way the pools in her eyes start to shine, he can tell she gets the gist.

Once the emotional mumbo jumbo is over, they take turn signing his cast. Or, more accurately, turning his cast into a public toilet stall with varying degrees of script ranging from inspirational quotes to bad puns, like “99 Problems, But Death Ain’t One” and “Sixty to Zero in 3.5.”

It’s only a little after 9 P.M. when Sokka finds he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. Katara has had to nudge him twice to stay awake, and by the third time, the group must get the hint to leave, and so they do, one by one, until it’s just Katara and Aang as the last remaining guest, and even Katara shoos Aang onward without her. 

Being less than rich and in between homes most times usually meant an impermanence that touted functionality over social conventions. Still, they haven’t had a “sleep-over” in… well… years, probably.

Not since Gran-Gran had passed, and that was more an all night drunken sob fest than anything to do with actual sleep.

It takes both Zuko and Katara, but between the two they manage to haul Sokka to his own bed.

If it were anyone else, they might think it weird for the siblings to be so OK with sharing a bed. Because it’s Zuko, he doesn’t even bat an eye as Katara takes her braids out and plops down on the opposite side of the mattress. Instead he just says a simple goodnight, eyes Sokka like he wants to say more, looks at Katara like he thinks better of it before closing the door.

Truthfully, and he would never utter this to his sister, but Sokka was beyond grateful to have someone there with him. Not that Zuko doesn’t count as someone with his room not even ten feet away, but asking Zuko to share a bed would definitely be crossing a boundary.

It doesn’t take much adjusting until the two are both laid over the sheets on their backs, top cover barely stretching between the two of them, but they somehow make it work.

When they were little, right after they had moved to California, Sokka had taken to sneaking out and laying in a similar position on their roof for no other reason that to ground himself by naming the familiar constellations. Katara joined him, eventually, and it became their thing for years, even after California became just as much as home as Alaska.

They’re not religious. Spiritual, maybe. But the closest that they had come to going to church growing up had been quiet mornings perched in a deer blind.

The second closest had been those nights staring up at the stars.

It just wasn’t good manners to speak during prayer, and the same went for their meditative silence. But Katara always did have a hard time watching her mouth.

“Hey,” she starts, then stopped abruptly, like she hadn’t really meant to speak at all. 

“Hey,” he replies, waiting a few breaths. When a reply isn’t forthcoming, he repeats himself with a little more gusto and a lot more slurring.

The reply was almost instantaneous. “Never mind.”

Despite feeling crossfaded and slipping, he manages to get out, “Nope. Not going to let it go that easy.” It boarders on a whine, but he ends it with a firm, “Spill.”

He knows the conversation is going to take a turn for the uncomfortable the second he feels every muscle in Katara’s body tense up. Fight or flight instincts wound and ready to spring should the need arise.

So, when she asks in a flurry on her exhale, “You trust me, right?” Sokka isn’t quit sure how to respond.

The immediate reaction would be to say, _of course_ , and move on to get some sleep. But the question feels weighed down by something more.

He hadn’t been too good at keeping his knew emotional vulnerability thus far, but he is also too tired to form coherent thought let alone words, so he opts to play it safe, which is really the same as playing dumb. People don’t tend to trust you with secrets if they think you’re dumb, Sokka has come to learn over the years. It’s useful, sometimes.

As innocently as he can manager, he asks, “To not snore?”

And try as he might to bait Katara into welcoming the evasion for whatever is to come, Katara _knows_ him. And the thing about being known is that it’s terribly inconvenient when trying to hide. Sokka can feel Katara rolling her eyes, even if it takes another minute or so for her to find her words.

They’re both staring at the ceiling like they there isn’t six floors of apartments separating them from the sky. Katara keeps her hands busy by fiddling with the ends of her hair, and Sokka rubs at his skinned palms.

Eventually, his sister drops her hair and crosses her arms to hug herself, shrugs once, and then with a great amount of conviction says, “I know we don’t always get along. And that we’ve had our share of fights. But, you’re my brother and I will never lie to you. I just want to make sure you feel comfortable with, like, telling me things.”

The crawling fuzzy feeling is back. Like he swallowed a caterpillar and it’s trying to crawl its way back up his throat. “I’m not firing on all cylinders, ‘Tara. If you’re trying to ask me something…”

“While you were in the hospital and before any of us really knew how bad things were, there was a little while where I wasn’t so sure I knew you as well as I thought I did,” she says. Sokka keeps a firm eye on the ceiling, but he cheek burns like Katara is boring a hole through his skin with her stare. She sighs, returns to staring at the popcorn above them. “That’s not to say you’re not entitled to having your own secrets. Because, you are! I don’t _want_ to know certain things, you know?” _Not really_ , he thinks. But that does not deter her from steamrolling on now that she’s gotten her engine started. “But, it just scared me, because I thought I might not ever get the chance to ask you and instead was going to have strangers coming out of the wood-work to try to tell me about my own brother. So, I guess I just want you to know that you can, like, tell me things.” 

He takes a moment to mull it over, because, really, what else was he supposed to do? They didn’t do these types of conversations. They never had. Sokka was not emotionally or mentally prepared for whatever was happening, but Katara was holding her breath so he figured he had to give her something back in return.

Not that he was really sure what she was fishing for. But he owed her something, he knew.

It took nearly five minutes until, finally, he said, “Hey, Katara?”

“Yeah?”

“I do have something I should tell you -- something I’ve never told anyone else.” He turns to face her fully, and she meets his gaze, eyes searching and bone dry. With a heavy sigh, he says seriously, “I’m Spiderman.”

The look she levels at him could wilt flowers, but he’s seen it too many times before to feel the impact. Instead he closes his eyes, nods solemnly, and says, “You have no idea how good that feels to get off my chest.”

It’s obviously not what she wants from the moment, but it’s all he has to give her. He’s trying to express himself, but if he’s not sure what her aim is with this conversation, then all he has to offer is humor. Sorry, not sorry.

If he was a little less injured, he knows that Katara would have punched his arm. She looks like she thinks about it before settling on grabbing more of the top blanket and pulling it with her as she flops on her other side, saying, “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but it might just be hereditary, so what does that say about you?”

The reply is muffled by blanket, but he can make out the, “You were adopted,” comment clear enough.

He hums thoughtfully, before readjusting the pillow under his head and languishing a simple, “No dice, little sis.” It feels hallow; like they both need more form this conversation than either really got. So as he settles in to end the first day of the rest of his born again life, he says, “Hey, Katara?” He waits to hear the hum as her reply before saying, “I can tell you things, you know. When I have something worth telling, you’ll be the first to know.”

She doesn’t say anything, but a hand creeps over her shoulder and searches for any part of him that it can find. It lands on his scalp and pats firmly. It feels like a good a way to end the conversation as any. Or, at the very least, put a bookmark in to resume at a later date.

Sokka thinks of bottled emotions as he falls asleep. But he’s in his own bed for the first time in days, and he also thinks about how everything is so fundamentally the same, but different.

He thinks everything will be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commenter Odetonyama has successfully identified the MUSE of this fic as this Reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/relationship_advice/comments/iq00ti/my_roommates_both_24f_heart_monitor_speeds_up/ 
> 
> 1) first of all -- THANK YOU SO MUCH for all of the lovely comments. i am not worthy and i am so beyond happy that people actually enjoyed the first chapter... I hope this chapter doesn't scare anyone off, because chapter 3 and 4 are clearer in my mind and i have IDEAS. 
> 
> 2) this will now be 4 chapters
> 
> 3) I cut, edited, re-worded and other maimed 10k of this chapter and i am STILL NOT HAPPY. i'll probably come back and clean a portion (or all) of this later, but i'm 100% done looking at this chapter. 
> 
> 4) there is a playlist for this. i'm still working on it but it can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Wmx7SYdOd2YZqRaVU5XWh?si=zKnNrRaWQOm53oxTkV3VVw


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearts, as it turns out, can break without loss. It must be a side effect of loving another human being that they become so fragile. 
> 
> **WARNING** This fic depicts a near-death experience due to a motor vehicle accident. It deals with the aftermath both from the perspective of being involve in a traumatic accident, as well as from the perspective of nearly losing someone close. Please take care while reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING I'M SORRY.  
> And proof-reading and me are, like, not a compatible pair. I'm sorry for that, too.

The call comes in a little after 7 P.M. and as a local area code.

It rings two or three times, successfully claiming the attention of four of the five sets of eyes stuck in the small conference room. The fifth pair belongs to the owner of the device, and who is too absorbed in the mounted computer on the wall to register the interruption as his own fault.

By the fourth ring, Jee is nudging Zuko, nodding to the other man’s pocket and making a face that clearly read, “Are you going to get that?” while the rest of the occupants make a face that plainly reads, “Are we going to get to leave?”

It was well after quitting time, and those still left in attendance were only being held together by a fifth or sixth cup of coffee, sheer determination, and the threat of a poor performance review if they dared to complain.

But it was the home stretch for the project. The budget was so close to being done that, by this time tomorrow, it would be in someone else’s inbox to complete their portion. No such luck for the boss’ cell phone to bring them a quick escape from their numeric hell.

Instead, Zuko deftly reaches into the pocket of his slacks to retrieve the still ringing device. He barely glances at the caller ID before hitting the power button and switching the phone to silent in one motion, the product of years of screening calls making the movement fluid.

“We’re missing the P&L for June,” is all he says to the room.

There is a collective sigh that’s shielded by the rifling of documents and clacking of keyboard, and it makes it seem like the interruption never even happened.

It’s not until another hour has past that they’re all satisfied with the numbers enough to send it home with Jee. The older man will finish the final touches over the cold dinner his wife had left out for him and a beer, but as long as it gets done right, Zuko would pretend it was as good as him being at his desk.

Zuko himself isn’t so lucky to expect food at home. They usually didn’t go grocery shopping until Thursday nights after the weekly meat delivery, because Sokka insisted that the quality was better. The best bet for food would be some sugary cereal that his roommate kept on hand at all times.

So, in the place of empty carbs, he opts to grab the stale coffee left at the bottom of the communal pot, and heads back to his own office to clean up his inbox.

At this time of night, the hallways are only lit by security lights, but Zuko is used to traversing around in near darkness despite the blindness in his left eye. There’s no one else lingering around to pluck at their keyboards or commiserate about some office drama. The only company Zuko has as he makes his way to his office are the shadows that cast on the walls, and he probably knows them better than the majority of his coworkers at this point. They keep his pace as he reaches his corner suite and have to disappear when the gray walls morph into glass panes.

The view is to die for, though. All twinkling lights and skyscrapers looking over the expanse of the City of Los Angeles. Zuko had lived in New York for a time. A good amount of time. Too much, if anyone really cared to ask him. They called it The City That Never Sleeps, but L.A. is The City of Angels and the hallways of heaven shone brightly 24/7. 

In all honestly, though, if pushed for an answer, despite living in some of the largest cities in Japan and North America, Zuko wouldn’t necessarily peg himself as a city guy. If he spent any time considering where on earth he was the happiest in his life, he would have said his parent’s beach house near Kalihiwai Bay. But California beaches were beautiful, and his job was his life, and his social circle had never been more complete, so he quickly adopted L.A. as home, even if it meant daily smog and traffic.

Regardless of his intentions to make L.A. home, is office is sparse, even after nearly eleven months into the job. His desk houses only a few essential items, like his workstation and office phone. The only hint of personalization to the large expanse of room his position allows him is a well worn mouse pad and a coffee mug; the mouse pad being a gift from Sokka that is just a circle with the words BANG HEAD HERE in the center, and the coffee mug a gift from his uncle that reads POSITIVI-TEA.

It came as no surprise that Iroh and Sokka got along so well when they’re humor was similar situated. But the gifts were functional and therefore got to remain.

And whether or not he’s actually banged his head against said mouse pad will remain his own business.

It takes him another hour or so before he’s caught up enough to not be too far behind in the morning. And it’s late enough that the night cleaners have started to filter in, which is just more reason for him to call it a night. So, he packs up his stuff for the day, locks his office, and heads to the elevator where he has to wait for the young lady pushing a supply cart out before he can get in.

The routine is so habitual that he knows the cleaner’s name is Pam, that she’s in school during the day as an Education major, and that her boyfriend drinks too much – all of which is gleaned as the by-product of the crews’ work chatter when they think no one else is listening.

She, on the other hand, knows nothing about Zuko himself besides the fact that he works late, wears well tailored suits, and has a giant disfigurement covering half his face. The latter of which is usually enough for most people to form a general idea about him based on looks alone. 

They smile at each other all the same, and Zuko disappears behind the steel doors.

It’s a ten story decent to the parking garage, so he finally pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts to check what he’s missed in the last few hours that it’s been on silent.

His notifications tell him that he’s behind on fifteen text messages, which he glances at quickly, all mostly work related. He pauses when he sees the name _Katara_ in the metaphorical unread stack. There is a blaring and red number four above the contact, and the last text in the chain simply reads, “call me,” which is more than a little weird.

Katara and him are on good terms now, after several years of Zuko being sure that Sokka’s little sister was plotting his murder (and rightly so, considering the way he had acted towards her and her friends in high school). But even though they were finally friends themselves, that didn’t mean that they necessarily just start texting each other out of the blue. To be fair, Zuko didn’t really text anyone out of the blue, but if he did, it wouldn’t be his roommates’ sister.

He decides to ignore the work texts, and goes straight into the messages from Katara.

**Today 6:32 PM**

_Hey, is Sokka with you?_

**Today 7:48 PM**

_If he is, tell him to check his phone._

**Today 8:31 PM**

_I’ve been trying to call him for the last two hours what’s the deal?_

**Today 8:56 PM**

_call me._

Admittedly, Zuko’s first reaction isn’t concern. There are a ton of reasons that he can think of as to why his roommate wouldn’t be responding to his sister. Like, being in the shower. Or, getting stuck at work. Or, being stuck in traffic. Or, maybe even being preoccupied with company...

Zuko squashes that thought down incredibly fast.

He tells himself that Katara is over reacting, but that doesn’t stop him from quickly forgetting about the other unread messages to call her back.

The call fails, and he’s greeted with a no signal error because he’s on the fifth floor and progressively going farther underground. His cell service won’t be good enough to make a call until he’s out of the elevator, and there is a distinct and unpleasant feeling of unease that sits in his stomach at having to wait, so he occupies his mind by quickly moving onto checking his missed calls as a distraction.

There are eight in total. One from his uncle, two are work related, two from Katara, and the remaining three are from that same local area code that he had ignored earlier.

There’s only one new voicemail.

Despite the reception not being great in the elevator, there is enough to try and play back the message.

The recording starts, tells him the current date, says the time the call came in was at 7:08 PM, and then bleeds into a woman’s voice on the recording. The waning signal makes the beginning broken, but it levels out towards the second floor and Zuko is able to catch what comes next with startling clarity.

“--with Huntington Hospital. Your landlord provided L.A. PD with your phone number concerning an accident involving a Mr. Sokka Imiq --“

The elevator reaches the parking garage and the doors open, but Zuko doesn’t get out immediately.

The woman on the message keeps talking, but Zuko’s ears are ringing so it comes in waves of broken speech. “—Will need to be taken for surgery and we don’t have a next of kin to contact –“

Suddenly, the world is not so even anymore. It’s like someone poked a hole in the atmosphere and let the earth take a free drive through empty space.

He had just talked to Sokka at lunch. The conversation was brief and not even meaningful enough to properly recall; something about Suki’s upcoming birthday and a party. He wracks his brain to try and imagine what had happened from then until now, but he’s missing important pieces. It makes his mind spin, and his knee jerk reaction is to run to his car and break a few traffic laws. But then he remembers Katara’s messages, and he and his blood all but freeze.

He fumbles with the phone in his hand, clicks open his e-mails instead of his contacts, and then curses when his vision distorts the tiny names and numbers before he can correct his mistake. It takes three more tries before he’s scrolling through his missed calls to find Katara’s phone number, all the while his feet are moving him forward. He ends up walking past his car before having to double back at a sprint.

The signal is spotty, but the line rings only once. It’s not nearly enough time for Zuko’s brain to catch up to his body before there’s a rush of, “Is my brother with you?” assaulting his ear.

Katara is a little breathless and a lot stern from the other end of the receiver. She had always been unyielding, even as a young teenager, so Zuko should have been used to the tone, but he’s stumbling to regain his bearings and he finds himself being thrown all the same.

“Uh, no –“ he tries, but then Katara is cutting him off.

“Are you home?”

“No. Katara –“

“Have you spoken with him lately?”

“No. Listen –“

He had always envied the two’s relationship. Not on some weird attention seeking level, but more so that the siblings actually liked and cared for each other so much. They did things together; went out to eat, went shopping, just sat and talked sometimes, which nearly split Zuko’s mind in two the first time he had caught them huddled together in the kitchen over a bottle of wine, conspiring away at 11PM. 

Zuko didn’t have that with his own sisters. His relationship with Kiyi was healthier than than with Azula, but there were just too many years of scar tissue laid over that particular part of his heart to allow for anything as close as what Sokka and his sister shared.

He knows for certain that Azula would have given up on him after her call went unanswered the first time.

But Zuko can hear Katara huff away from the receiver, and the jangle of what must be bracelets knocking against each other leads him to imaging her running her hand through her hair, much like her brother would do if the situation was reversed. “What an asshole,” she says. “What does he think he’s doing just ghosting everyone like this. I mean, of all the –“

The mental image of Sokka grounds him enough to unlock his car and throw himself in the driver’s seat. He gets a good, deep breath in, conjuring enough fire in his belly to cut across the tirade coming down the other line with a sharp, “Katara!” And just as suddenly as the explosion happened, it stopped, and the other end of the line goes quiet. He takes just enough time to massage his temple, count to three like he learned in therapy, and then says, “Listen to me and try and stay calm.” Because if she continued to freak out, then he would continue to freak out, and no one would be any use. “I just got a call from the hospital,” he cringes slightly at the exaggeration of his use of the word “just” because, generally, that term was reserved for things that had recently happened, not things that had happened hours ago and had simply been ignored. He plows on, ignoring the guilt blossoming in his chest, “They said Sokka’s been in an accident. I don’t have any other details, but I’m on my way there now. I just left the office, so it should take me twenty minutes, if traffic is good.”

It’s quiet for all of a second before Katara is asking, “Why did they call you?”

It wasn’t accusatory or riddled with jealously, but there was something almost suspicious about her tone. “I don’t know?” he answers honestly. Because, well, he didn’t know. He doesn’t remember his roommate telling him that he had listed him as an emergency contact, or even that Sokka knew his number off the top of his head. Oh, wait – “The woman at the hospital said our landlord gave her my number.”

It may have been charming ordinarily, the inquisitiveness that both Sokka and Katara possessed, but right now Zuko was trying to plug in the address to the hospital into his GPS while Katara was busy fixating on the whys and hows and whats. “Because there was an accident at the apartment?”

“I don’t think so? The complex would have called me if something happened over there, right?”

There’s a hum down the other line mingled with the sound of a door slamming shut and feet hitting concrete. “The address on his driver’s license,” she says with certainty. Not even a hint of breathlessness in her voice anymore. “If they had to dig for a number then that probably means he’s not able to give them a person to call.”

The words ‘taking him to surgery’ play in his head, and Zuko thinks its better to not mention that fact to Katara right now. Instead, he tells her which hospital to go to as he puts his own car in drive.

The road is virtually empty as he pulls out of the garage. He has to roll the window down part of the way to let some fresh air in so that he can breathe properly, despite feeling like his blood is pumping ice.

“I have to call my dad.” He can hear the sound of a back-up camera beeping violently, and he has enough focus to worry about Katara driving while upset. “Can you call me as soon as you get to the hospital?” she asks.

Really, neither of them should be driving, but the GPS tells him he’s fifteen minutes away, and he knows it will take Katara another half an hour or more depending if she’s home or not. “Of course.”

He focuses on the road and pretends that his entire body is not vibrating as he does twenty over the speed limit.

**…..**

It is both the shortest and longest drive he has ever had to endure, and by the time he’s pulling into the ER parking lot and turning off the car’s engine, Zuko is exhausted.

His track record with hospitals is not great. Zuko isn’t out right scared of them or anything, but when he walks into the lobby and the smell of disinfectant and rubber hits him square in the face, he has to swallow back a mouthful of acidic bile.

The row of reception desks disorients him for a moment until he finds the sign that reads _Visitors_ and beelines for the young-faced girl seated under it.

At the sounds of his dress shoes clacking against the linoleum floor, she picks up her head, nervous smile springing to the corner of her lips. It all but vanishes when she gets a look at Zuko, a real _look_ , and her eyes go wide.

He’s used to the reaction at this point in his life and it’s easy enough to ignore, given he’s not all that coherent right now, anyway. “I’m looking for a Sokka Imiq?” he says to her, hands braced on the counter. She continues to stare straight into his bad eye. “I got a call about an accident he’s was involved in.”

There is a delay in her movements, but eventually her eyes dart down guiltily as she moves to her keyboard. She asks for his name while looking anywhere but at him directly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

It takes her a few tries with the system as she types into the computer, and Zuko finds himself thinking that she must be new.

After several seconds she looks from her screen to somewhere near his right ear, a little _ah_ sound indicating she must have found something. “They didn’t have a next of kin of file…” she starts.

Zuko is quick to fill in the questions for her. “His dad and sister are on their way.” And knowing that Sokka is actually somewhere there, in a hospital, suddenly feels more real than anything in the twenty-some-odd minutes. Not knowing details seems too much, so he asks “Is he okay?”

The girl finally eyes him under her blonde bangs. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any information,” she says, nerves etching through her tone. She pushes on at his dead-panned look, “Since you’re not an immediate relative?”

Suddenly, in a wave of nauseous memories, Zuko thinks of the first few weeks spent in his own hospital bed, pain wracking his face and scalp and throat. How, when he was able to distinguish between agony and reality, he had overheard a doctor speaking to someone and referring to Zuko as their son, and how the terror of not being able to see from the bandages around his eyes almost made him scream before the panic had made him pass out. He remembers waking up to someone signing, light and toneless and watery, and he remembers knowing that it was his uncle there at his bedside instead of his actual father.

His own memories make the lie come easy.

In a moment of quick thinking that would have made Sokka proud, he says, “He’s my partner,” before subtly moving the hair tie around his wrist down to his left ring finger. He holds the rest of the band in his palm firmly. 

The her eyes go wider and she asks, “Partner?”

“Domestic partner? Spouse?”

Had they been anywhere else, Zuko knows that the lie wouldn’t work. He had heard of how same-sex couples frequently had to pretend to be siblings in emergency situations in order to be treated as family. Thankfully, being in California, the girl simply looks a little embarrassed for not assuming (not that she could have), but not judgmental in the least. “Oh,” is her response. “Right – of course. Um, do you have any documents –“

“I just came here straight from my office when I got the call.”

“Right,” she stops fiddling with her keyboard and goes for a clipboard. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking at Zuko fully now. He can see her eyes dart down to check for a ring, and he holds firmly to the excess hair tie in his fist. It must work, or the girl may just be too embarrassed to call him out again, because she’s handing him the sign-in sheet and a pen a moment later, “Can you just…?”

His hand is still shaking when he takes the pen and write his name in messy scrawl. He can feel eyes on him as he focuses too intently on the task. It makes his skin crawl, but he has to ask again, “Is he okay?”

She goes back to reading her screen, “Looks like he was in a motor vehicle accident. I can have one of the doctors come give you more information?”

He hands her back the clipboard with his right hand. For the first time since their interaction started, he’s given a genuine smile from the girl and he relaxes as he says, “Yes, please.”

**…..**

Hospitals are a lot like black holes in that time just sort of stops being a conscious thing.

For all the immense amount of movement and action, two minutes and two hours feel startlingly similar in a hospital waiting room.

Zuko found himself sat in the farthest corner, legs bouncing, phone held aloof in his hand, and caught in a vicious battle of wanting to talk to someone and wanting nothing more than to never talk to anyone ever again.

He had called Katara, of course. Gave her a rambling account of what the doctors had told him (blatantly glossing over the partner thing, because there was enough going on as it was) and ended it with her saying they were about forty-five minutes away.

That was what felt life four hours ago, and there was still no sign of Sokka’s family.

He had spent a good while debating whether it was his place to tell Suki or Toph what had happened, or whether Katara had already let them know what was going on.

In the end, he just tucks his phone away and puts his head in his hands.

Despite growing up within religion, Zuko never considered himself religious. They attended service every Sunday and lit the candles at vigils, but it was hard to walk into a church and not feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder or hear his grand-father’s recitals of some script or another.

There was also the whole God Hates Gays thing that just seemed to rub him the wrong way. Though, somewhere in his subconscious, he knows real or not, it’s not God that hates anyone; just a bunch of zealots’ interpretations.

Still, he’s so disconnected from any genuine participation that when he bows his head, hands clasped firmly together in front of him, he’s not sure how exactly to start a prayer anymore. But that doesn’t stop him from squeezing every ounce of focus into getting it right.

For lack of formality and to err on the side of caution, just in case someone above is keeping tabs on Zuko’s own infidel ways, he thinks a good place to start is with listing out the reasons why Sokka deserves to be okay. It’s stiff and mechanical at first, just a simple list of traits like kindness and humor and smarts and wit are reason enough to deem someone worthy of continued living. But, he repeats the mantra nonetheless, and at some point it takes on depth and feeling and something a little more reminiscent of memories filled with steel cut eyes and a clear bright laugh.

Zuko finds himself clinging to the sound as he spends all his energy kindling a fire in his belly and pushing it out into his plea.

He knows that he’s not alone in his misery there in the waiting room, and if some of his prayer accidently spills over for the woman crying two rows down, then he thinks it’s more than OK.

**…..**

By the time Katara and Hakoda get there, Bato in tow, Zuko is distinctly unaware of anything besides his own mantra and the buzzing in his brain.

He’s blindly counted the tiles above his head a dozen or more times, and the floor beneath his feet is probably worn down by the tapping of his shoe.

Surprisingly, Katara’s first reaction is not to immediately beg for information. Instead, it takes her all of five seconds from the times she spots him hunkered down in the corner of the lobby to the time she is throwing herself at his still seated form.

“Uh, hi,” he wheezes out. He’s still a little touch starved and nervous by physical contact, but Katara is squeezing him tightly, and her warmth is almost welcomed after sitting numb and lonely for over an hour.

There aren’t any tears in her eyes as she pulls back, but she had been crying at some point, because her make-up is smudged and her eyes rimmed with red.

Katara recedes and Hakoda takes her place, giving Zuko a one armed hug and a pat on the back. It is entirely disorienting to be comforted when he should be the one doing the comforting, but he figures he probably looks a lot like Katara does right now, he just can’t pull the look off as effortlessly as she does.

Nonetheless, the small Imiq family is staring at him like he’s one of them, and it both hurts and helps to know that he might be considered someone important to Sokka, too. 

Katara brushes her bangs away, gives him a lopsided smile that looks so much like her brother’s it’s uncanny, and then she gets to business. “Any updates?” she asks.

He debriefs them with the fragmented information that he had been able to get and that he had already told Katara over the phone.

Motorcycle accident, Sokka had been wearing his helmet, needed surgery for a broken leg, someone would come and let them know once he was out and how it went.

No one asks how he got that information, and Zuko is more than a little embarrassed as he looks at the two older men and tries not to think about their reaction if they knew Zuko was claiming marriage just to get those few details.

They spend the next couple of hours rotating their pacing until, finally, the doctor comes out, and Zuko is thankful that she speaks to the group as a whole instead of singling Zuko out, least he be caught in his lie.

She tells them that Sokka is out of surgery, that he’s been wheeled off to recovery, and that it will probably be a little bit until he is fully conscious as they monitor him for any head trauma.

It’s the nice way of telling them to go home, but, frankly, being anywhere but the hospital would be more uncomfortable than spending the night in the plastic waiting room chairs.

The doctor does say that they will allow back a single visitor to check on Sokka once he’s been situated in a room, and it doesn’t even get a chance for deliberation before Hakoda is volunteered.

It’s well past midnight by the time Hakoda is told he can go back. He’s gone for a thirty-minute window, and upon his return he looks fifteen years older.

They all wait with bated breath, and Hakoda gives Katara and him a small, drawn smile. “He’s good,” he says.

They share a look, a little disbelieving if Hakoda’s face is any way to judge. But, then again, the man probably is as uncomfortable in hospitals as Zuko.

Bato is the one to ask, “Awake?”

“Not yet. They’ve got him knocked out right now,” Hakoda says, a little huff escaping him as he draws his hands across his face. “Got some nice bruising that he’ll probably get a kick out of complaining about.”

They all laugh at that until it dwindles into silence.

Hakoda is staring straight ahead when he says to the room, “Remember that time you fell off your bike in Arizona?”

It’s clear the question is for Bato, who stretches his arms above his head, yawns, and rubs his high cheek bone in thought before asking, "The time I broke my arm?”

“Yeah,” is the reply. Hakoda makes a face at his friend, something sarcastic and mocking, but not mean. “You thought you saw some oil in the road, but it was just the heatwaves and you ended up in that steep ditch. That gravel and sand rubbed your skin so raw I think you still have a scar on your back?”

“It was oil,” Bato insisted, before he winces from phantom pain. “Yeah. I do. Hurt worse than falling on packed snow, that’s for sure.”

To Katara, her dad says, “You kids were pretty young then. You were still in diapers, so Sokka couldn’t have been more than three or four.” He laughs at some memory of his kids being young, or maybe at himself for just getting old. “It was our first trip after starting our our families. I guess that’s what made the wreck so bad, because it wasn’t just us riding alone anymore. I remember going back home and telling Kya that I wouldn’t let you two near a motorcycle as long as I lived after that.”

Bato barked a laugh, “That lasted how long?”

And Hakoda laughed, too. “About a month,” he says. He shrugs dismissively, “Then I was back to riding up and down the driveway with Sokka while Katara and Kya cheered from the porch.”

Zuko distinctly remembers Sokka mentioning to him once that one of the best times he'd had growing up were when their dad took turns giving them rides on his motorcycle while their mom took turns braiding their hair. It’s a nice memory, but Hakoda’s tone makes him sound bitter, like Sokka’s accident can be traced back to that one small recollection from nearly twenty years ago.

No one says anything for a long while. But Zuko knows guilt can eat you alive, so he tells Hakoda, “That’s one of his favorite memories as a kid.” Like just that knowledge may eliminate any feelings of wrongdoing the other man may have.

And if anyone is surprised that Sokka has shared something that intimate with him, they don’t act like it. Hakoda just looks at him a little dazedly, before his shoulders sag and he reaches his arm across the seats to pat Zuko on the arm.

It doesn’t take long after that before they’re all in varying stages of restless sleep there in the lobby. They’re woken up a few hours later by a nurse who comes out to tell them that Sokka was being moved to a real room and that they could come back during normal visiting hours the next day.

It takes a good bit of persuading, but eventually the nurse is able to reassure them all enough to leave to get a few hours of real sleep.

So, a just a little past 3AM when Zuko finds himself all but stumbling into their shared apartment. All of the lights are off, just like they had left it when they both went to work nearly twenty-four hours before, and Tui is fast asleep on her perch when he enters the living room. It leaves the entire apartment oddly silent. Either that, or she’s ignoring him. She always liked Sokka more, and whenever the other man was away she would act like somehow Sokka’s absence was _Zuko’s_ fault.

As much as Zuko likes to complain about Tui’s constant squawking and squeaking and other assorted sound simulations, it’s too quiet.

The lack of idle chatter, or blaring music, or a TV set on low is utterly deafening. The upstairs’ neighbors are quieter than normal, too. Like they know there’s no sense in making a ruckus, because there’s currently no one below them that will spend over an hour tapping the ceiling with a broom handle just for spite. 

Even though Zuko flips on the floor lamp, everything is dark and depressing and so unlike how it’s supposed to be without Sokka’s presence there. 

And it wasn’t that Zuko had an issue with being alone.

Honestly.

He was fine.

It was just that he wasn’t really acclimated to solitude, is all.

When he was younger, he had his sister, and by extension, Azula’s friends.

And even after long custody hearings, and even longer sleepless nights that they don’t talk about, he had Uncle uncle Iroh nearby.

Even the period in senior year when he thought that he was going to windup utterly isolated in a strange city, there had been Sokka.

Sokka, who was more nerd than jock but still somehow ended up being friends with everyone. Sokka, who despite years of despising Zuko had accepted him into their little rag-tag group. Sokka, who suggested that they room together the first year of college to save money, despite knowing that Zuko had plenty to go around.

There was a six foot three and two-hundred-pound void in his life, and it felt insurmountable in the face of a quiet apartment with the mingling of their lives scattered everywhere.

It takes him a moment while he stands in his own apartment and tries to figure out how to proceed, but he does eventually move, and when he does it’s purely mechanical.

He goes through the routine of putting his stuff away, feeding Tui, and then disappearing to shower like he’s on auto-pilot.

He normally runs the water hot, but it doesn’t take long until the stream is scalding his skin and the steam making it hard to see.

He doesn’t turn the temperature down, though. It only cools off after the hot water heater has had enough and then he’s forced to vacate his sauna and go back out and face the emptiness.

He rifles through the pile of clothes stacked on the dryer, all waiting to be folded and put away. It’s a healthy blend of blacks and red form his wardrobe, and the whites and blues that make up the majority of Sokka’s. In the midst of the mess is a white CalTech sweatshirt that has been tinged pink from mixing with a load of Zuko’s in their freshman year. It’s laughable now, but the memory of Sokka storming into his room and holding a pile of pink clothes comes flooding to him on a wave of sorrow. 

Zuko didn’t grow up with many friends, so his barometer for what is normal and what isn’t is slightly skewed.

He feels a little bit better when he slips the pullover on and lets the long sleeves cover his hands like a child. It’s clean, the smell of fresh cotton and plain detergent washing over him. He knows it’s clean. But he also swears there is something so distinctly Sokka lingering deep in the fibers, and he tries not to be weird by breathing in the scent like he’s suffocating and it’s the only oxygen around.

It doesn’t help the lump that develops in his throat, and the sting in his eyes makes him just want to curl up and sleep for ten years. He’s barefoot and dazed and lacking any modicum of his usual put-togetherness standing in their shared laundry nook, fighting back tears and sniffing his best friend’s clothes. If everything wasn’t so surreal, he would have chalked it up to tiredness. But the past twenty-four hours haven’t felt real at all, and it is easy to slip into the façade that the moment is just some weird dream that he’ll wake up from and tell to Sokka over his morning coffee.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until the damp sweatshirt brushes against his cheek, and that’s when he really loses it, because nothing about the past few hours was a dream.

Hearts, as it turns out, can break without loss. It must be a side effect of loving another human being that they become so fragile. 

Not that Zuko really ever understood all that much about love. He never had great role models, after all.

But between his uncle and his friends and his friends’ family, he has learned a lot in a short amount of time. He’s learned enough to realize that how he’s feeling is not typical for just friendship.

It takes a good twenty minutes for him to calm down, and by the time his knees stop shaking he realizes that they’re not even supporting his weight anymore, because he’s slid down the wall, the coldness of the bare floor seeping through his pajama pants.

He just sits there like a dying man as he listens to the silence around him. The sweatshirt is warm, and there’s no one to see him slip further into a pathetic blob, so he curls up there on the floor and breaths in the lingering scent of pencil shavings and cedar and pretends that it’s okay to be scared and possibly in love, if just in that small moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House keeping notes: 
> 
> 1) My knowledge of hospital protocol is very limited and exclusively from when I was a child and from my own experience last year. However, I've heard that same-sex couples sometimes have to pose as siblings when their s/o is involved in an emergency, and if that doesn't make you absolutely furious then idk, man.
> 
> 2) Same goes for how PD and hospitals handle like, John Doe situations. I assume they have to do some leg work to trace down a next of kin or a contact, so I am purely taking liberties that they would contact someone's landlord for lack of other info. 
> 
> 3) I will never stop driving hope the sibling love between Katara and Sokka. Sorry, not sorry. 
> 
> 4) Writing is still hard and I still don't know what I'm doing. How do people get their characters to just, like, cooperate? And plot? Who is she? We don't know her in this house. 
> 
> 5) Next chapter is the final chapter. This is officially the longest thing I have ever written, and it needs like a total overhaul once all parts are done, but I am entirely grateful for those of you who are reading and commenting and otherwise enjoying the small glimmers of good content amidst the crap. I hope you all have a wonderful week :*


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